I made a decision at that moment that I would totally divorce the two large questions-who killed Marjorie Ainsworth, and whether she had written Gin and Daggers without undue help from Jason Harris. Whatever I knew that had direct bearing on the former, I would share with any and all authorities, beginning with Chief Inspector George Sutherland. Anything having to do with the authorship of the novel was not, it seemed to me, police business, not with the reputation of a dear and deceased friend on the line. I thought of the manuscript sitting in my hotel suite; that certainly would not be mentioned, at least for now.
There was, however, the conversation I’d had with Renée Perry regarding the alleged novel Brandy and Blood, and her assertion that Bruce Herbert had possession of it, and had murdered Marjorie Ainsworth in order to resolve the pending difficulties presented by it.
“George,” I said, “I have run across some information that might possibly be of interest to you where Marjorie’s murder is concerned, but it must be kept…” I smiled. “It must be kept awfu’ private.”
“Of course. Let me drive you back to the hotel, and you can tell me on the way.”
He drove a relatively old racing-green Jaguar that he kept in pristine condition. He drove slowly, and I explained what Renée Perry had told me about the missing manuscript, and her accusation that Bruce Herbert had killed Marjorie.
“Does Mrs. Perry hold any particular credibility with you?” he asked.
“Frankly, no, and when I asked her directly, she admitted she had no proof.”
“What about her husband? We’ve done a considerable background check on him. It seems he heads a publishing company that bears his name and is in precarious financial condition.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that.”
“And Miss Ainsworth charges in her will that he’d stolen money from her, and that she had loaned him a considerable amount to keep the company going.”
“I was at the will reading and heard those things. As far as stealing money from her, Marjorie wouldn’t be the first author to make such claims against publishers and agents without evidence to support it. Writers are… writers, and by the very nature of what they do and how they earn a living, tend to become distrustful and paranoid. I remember touring Dickens’s house on a previous trip to London. I jotted down the contents of some of his letters that are on display, letters to his agent and to his publisher humbly requesting money with which to live and, without actually stating it, implying that there might be some hanky-panky going on with their accounting of royalties.” I laughed. “I even committed one of those letters to memory. He’d written it to his publisher, Chapman and Hall, in 1836.
“When you have quite done counting the sovereigns received for Pickwick, I should be much obliged to you to send me up a few…”
I delivered the lines in my best British accent.
“The same with all writers, I take it,” Sutherland said.
“Yes, but I’m not sure I would put much credence in Marjorie’s claim of having been cheated either by Perry House or by her British publisher, Archibald Semple. The loan is another question. I wondered whether there had been papers drawn when the money had been given to him.”
“I questioned Mr. Perry yesterday,” Sutherland said, “and asked him about that. He said there never had been papers, and he characterized the loan as being of a very small amount, nothing of the magnitude Miss Ainsworth indicated in her will.”
“When Mrs. Perry was telling me her story about the agent Bruce Herbert, I actually wondered-” I stopped myself. It’s so easy to comment about other people without having a solid reason for doing so. I once heard a song titled “Your Mind Is on Vacation, Your Mouth is Working Overtime.” I didn’t want that to be the case with me.
I needn’t have worried. Sutherland said, “It occurred to me as you were telling me of Mrs. Perry’s accusation that she might be attempting to divert attention from her husband as a suspect in Miss Ainsworth’s murder.”
I didn’t acknowledge that I had thought the same thing, although I suspect he knew I had.
He drove me to the front of the Savoy and offered to buy me a nightcap. I declined, but asked him why he had seemed so cold toward me at Marjorie’s burial.
“Can I be brutally honest with you without offending, Jessica?”
“Yes, by all means.”
“Any good law enforcement officer knows that the biggest mistake he can make is to become emotionally involved with someone in a case, and I must admit I developed feelings for you from the first moment we met that could easily violate that principle.”
I had expected to hear any one of a dozen explanations for his behavior at the burial, but not this one.
“I’ve been tempted to call you every day to invite you for lunch or dinner, perhaps a stroll through the park, a ride in the country, but I’ve managed to hold myself in check. As long as I am confessing such things to you, Jessica, I might also say that it is my wish that when this whole nasty matter is resolved, you allow us the opportunity to explore the potentials of a relationship.”
“I… you’re a very kind and attractive man, George, and I am flattered by what you’ve said. In the meantime, although I am not a police officer, I suspect I, too, would be better served keeping my natural and very human instincts in check while we seek the murderer of Marjorie Ainsworth. After that… well, after that we can discuss it further.”
“Of course, Jessica. It was good to see you again tonight. I must, however, pick up on something you’ve just said.”
“Which is?”
“You talk of us trying to solve the murder. Might I make a suggestion to you?”
“Of course.”
“I know you are a skilled author, and because of the nature of the books you write, you have an insight into crime and the criminal’s mind. However, we’re talking here about a very dangerous situation, and I urge you to confine your interests to the conference and leave this investigation to me.”
“I thought you welcomed my observations.”
“I do, but observations are one thing, active involvement is another.”
“I know that you mean well with that suggestion, George, and I will give it serious consideration. Good night, and thank you for a lovely evening.”
He came around and opened the door for me. We looked at each other. I kissed him lightly on the cheek and went into the hotel with deliberate haste.
If I’d wanted to ignore the personal exchange that had just taken place with George Sutherland, it was impossible-Lucas, who’d been sitting in the lobby sipping a gin and tonic, sprang to his feet at the sight of me. “Come, sit with me, Jess, and tell me what happened.”
I forced a laugh. “Nothing happened, Lucas. The inspector and I discussed the case, and he drove me back.”
Lucas gave me one of his mischievous, knowing smiles. “Jessica Fletcher, I think it’s wonderful.”
“What do you think is wonderful?”
“That you and the inspector have a personal interest in each other.” I started to say something, but he cut me off. “I’ve been observing it ever since you met him-the sparks flying, the furtive glances, the romantic electricity in the air. I can see it now.” He created a globe in the air with his hands. “Jessica Fletcher, world-famous mystery writer, falls in love and marries Scotland Yard’s chief inspector, moves to London, where she takes an active part in the Marjorie Ainsworth International Study Center for Mystery Writers, and lives happily ever after.”
His eyes were wide as he awaited my reaction.
“Lucas, I think you should try writing another book, only this time put it in the historical romance genre. I’m pooped. See you tomorrow.”